


flexible hours

by catbrains



Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Flexibility, M/M, Masturbation, Shameless Smut, Teasing, Under-negotiated Kink, but everything is all enthusiastically consensual and good, really kinkshaming myself for this one folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:54:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23097421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catbrains/pseuds/catbrains
Summary: Pietro's taken up a sort of extracurricular in being tutored in gymnastics by Natasha.  He's also added a significant amount of even tighter workout gear to his wardrobe.Clint thinks that the Lord must be testing him.(He fails, at any rate.)
Relationships: Clint Barton/Pietro Maximoff
Comments: 10
Kudos: 185





	flexible hours

**Author's Note:**

> i got a request for hawksilver smut taking advantage of the possibility of pietro being very flexible (and also a shameless tease), and then i ran with it for over five thousand equally shameless words.  
> this is heavy on the age difference, and deeply filthy. just in case any of you are about to read all of it and then have the audacity to give me a scandalised comment.
> 
> if you haven't turned and ran - enjoy! <3

So, the kid’s got a great many talents.

Clint’s known Pietro is an arrogant little shit from the first time he opened his mouth - “ _You didn’t see that coming?_ ” - but slowly coming to learn that most of his bragging, his bravado, isn’t just empty chatter? That Pietro truly can spring back from a dozen bullets to the chest, can run faster than sound like it’s nothing, can knock a roomful of highly skilled agents on their asses before they even see what’s coming?

Yeah, that’s been infuriating. Because, really, Clint _wants_ the kid to be wrong. He wants to be able to one-up him, knock him down a peg or two, just like he had when he’d sent the brat tumbling through that glass floor, but a similar opportunity hasn’t yet arisen - because Pietro is good at what he does.

Although, admittedly, nowhere _near_ good enough to talk as much shit as he does.

Training with him is an exercise in patience as much as it is exercise in general. Because Pietro clearly loves the sound of his own voice - and a decidedly unhelpful part of Clint’s mind asks, ‘ _Who wouldn’t?’_ , but the kid’s an asshole. A smug, self-congratulatory, _painfully_ pretty little asshole, and Clint’s listened to him brag about anything under the sun. How he’s so much faster than anyone, any _thing_ else, to the point S.H.I.E.L.D.’s constantly developing new technology just to keep up with him. How he’s so much smarter than anyone else, can solve problems in the time it takes anyone else just to process them. How he’s just so much _better_ than anyone else, clearly a beacon of superiority.

The latest addition to the list is his flexibility.

The kid’s always been astoundingly flexible, though nobody had found out until he was a couple of weeks into the gentle training regime he’d been started on post-getting-shot-a-bunch. Cap had commented on it when he’d seen Pietro stretching - a long, muscular leg stretched effortlessly in front of him on the floor, perfectly straight - and Pietro had, somewhat tensely, admitted that he used to do dance and gymnastics, when he was a kid. Nothing serious, of course - Sokovia didn’t have the facilities to offer for that, and Pietro’s family certainly hadn’t had the money, but Pietro was a natural, and it was fun. He’d been forced to stop when he was a bit older, his father fearful of what others would think, and the hobby had been promptly abandoned.

He should be rusty. In fact, all skill should have entirely disappeared in the long years since childhood - god knows Clint gets stiff if he goes even a few days without keeping up with a stretching and workout schedule - but there must be some explanation behind it, something to do with the experiments. Perhaps they’d made him bendy just like they’d made him strong, and now he can do the _downright sinful_ shit Clint has caught the briefest glimpses of, because he’s been making a deeply, deeply conscious effort to steer clear of all of that.

There was a time, years ago, when he’d done the same thing with Natasha. Seeing her dressed in lycra, dark material hugging her every curve and tightly-defined muscle as she flowed through a ballet routine or did some insane yoga did things to Clint that he was entirely unwilling to be tempted to act upon. Nat had definitely figured it out, and she’d mocked him relentlessly.

Clint is somewhat convinced that the mockery must be continuing, even now, because now Nat is _tutoring_ Pietro. She’d tried to teach Wanda in a similar way, allegedly, but it hadn’t been Wanda’s thing at all.

Grace is her brother’s thing. She’s more the violence type, which is why she’s outside training with Cap while Clint drifts tensely, unwilling to go and find Pietro like he’s meant to be doing. He’s meant to check up on them both when they’re training, offer whatever assistance he can or just offer encouragement like a mentor is supposed to, but he knows damn well he’ll forget how to even think if he sees Pietro in those tights again - because, yeah, Pietro’s wearing _tights_ now. Leggings. Yoga pants. Whatever the fuck they are, they should be illegal. _He_ should be illegal, because he’s got the prettiest ass Clint’s ever seen and thighs Clint really, really wants to see tensing and trembling, jerking while Pietro writhes helplessly and _Jesus fucking Christ_ , Clint needs to go splash some cold water on his face or maybe take a goddamn ice bath before he really gives the S.H.I.E.L.D. employees milling about in the corridor something to talk about.

The amazing Hawkeye, cumming in his pants at the thought of a fucking nineteen-year-old.

He practically shudders at himself, half to pretend that he’s not still deeply turned on, and quickly turns, making a sharp beeline towards the elevators so he can get upstairs and maybe jerk off.

But, of course, that can’t happen - not so cleanly, at least, because one of the doors to the training rooms is open and Clint just happens to glance in and see something he’s never wanted to see so little and so desperately. Pietro, dressed in one of his new absurdly tight outfits in shades of silver and blue, holding his ankle in one hand as he stretches his leg up against his back so it’s almost parallel with his body. 

Clint takes one look at his ass and _everything else_ under that tight, thin material - tight enough that Clint _knows_ he isn’t wearing underwear - and then he turns and runs, up the stairs so goddamn fast that he’s half convinced he might’ve encroached upon one of Pietro’s records.

He’s yanking the trousers of his training outfit down as soon as he’s got the door to his quarters closed behind him. He leans back against it, stretches one palm out against the cool surface while the other wraps around his aching length, and he’s stroking himself way too fast immediately, but he doesn’t have the patience to tease, to build up to anything. All he can think about is that perfect ass, those long legs, Pietro’s smug little goddamn smile as he stretches, and then Clint’s thinking about wiping it off his face, thinking about stretching Pietro’s legs so wide that Clint can fuck him deep enough to make him sob, folding him in half so he’s helpless, can do nothing except let Clint _use_ him, and then Clint’s cumming, hard and messy with a groan like he’s been punched in the gut.

Yeah. The kid’s definitely good at a few things.

—

It’s probably a miracle that Clint holds out as long as he does. After the jerking-off incident, the run-ins with Pietro get even more frequent, as if he _knows_. There are always doors open so that Clint can see him work, he appears constantly in front of Clint in a blur of silver, still dressed in one of those goddamn outfits, and he harps on gleefully about how good he is now, how much Nat says he’s improving.

Half the time, Nat will drift into the room a minute later, while Pietro’s still singing his own praises, and she’ll give Clint a look like the devil, and Clint will glance to the sky like he expects to come face-to-face with God as some evidence that this is some insane test of his good nature. 

Are you _really_ a superhero, or will you give in and rail this teenager in his stupid lycra workout gear?

Clint’s known from the very start. It’s always just been a matter of time.

That matter of time turns out to be just two weeks after the first time he jerks off thinking about Pietro’s flexibility. He does so once again after that, but then - fearing exactly how consumed he is with thoughts of a pretty boy doing the splits on his dick - he forces himself to stop. He forces himself to find _focus_ , to think about literally anything else, but it gets difficult when it seems as if Pietro’s vigour in accidentally torturing him only increases tenfold.

Only, Clint starts to doubt if it’s really accidental.

Initially, he’d assumed that it must be. All of Pietro’s bragging, all of his bravado, always has a certain element of _innocence_ to it. Sure, he can be an asshole with it a lot of the time, but so much of it is just sincere excitement, sincere growth in his self-confidence, and Clint hadn’t wanted to take advantage of it just like he often doesn’t want to try and quell it entirely.

If the kid’s just honestly excited about finding this new pathway in a hobby he was forced to abandon as a child, then who is Clint to be a creep about it? 

He can just keep it quiet and jerk off about it and keep his damn distance, and everything will be fine.

_Except_ —

“You know, I really am getting good,” Pietro grins, using the bottom of his sinfully tight top to wipe some sweat from his brow, exposing the elegant curve of his pale, toned torso as he chatters to Clint in the hallway outside his usual training room. “I can do the splits now like it’s nothing. And I can bend my back all the way back, too. And—”

He lists off some other moves he can do, some of which he apparently only knows the names of in Sokovian or Russian, and Clint hates to admit that he kind of stops listening somewhere down the line, because Pietro’s only tugged his shirt back down halfheartedly. There’s still a strip of his stomach bare, the fabric bunched beneath his ribcage, and the shirt’s thin enough, tight enough, that Clint can see clear as day that the kid’s nipples are hard, and it’s really fucking difficult to think about anything else.

He tries not to stare, tries to keep his glances short and infrequent, but the damn kid’s got superspeed perception and surely he sees it every time Clint’s eyes move down, knows exactly what he’s looking at, and he must be uncomfortable. Clint can see it in how he starts fidgeting, starts chewing on his bottom lip as he keeps talking.

“It feels good,” he says, then catches his pink lip again beneath a slightly crooked tooth to make the skin flush further before he continues. “Being stretched, I mean. It feels really good.”

Clint swallows a lump in his throat and tells himself that he is _not_ allowed to be turned on by Pietro’s imperfect English making things sound dirty. 

“And it’s no effort anymore. It’s so _easy_.”

Clint barely manages a vague, hoarse hum, telling himself that he is completely imagining the weight in Pietro’s tone.

“It doesn’t take effort at all. I can do it while I’m not paying attention.” Pietro bites his lip again, harder this time, and shifts his feet. “While I’m _distracted_.”

Is Clint hallucinating? He is. He has to be. At some point during this conversation, his brain just short-circuited, and now he’s imagining he’s in a bad porno where a pretty twink in lycra is trying to seduce him, pupils blown wide to darken the blue of his eyes to something stormy, pretty pink lip caught between his teeth, fidgeting like he’s trying to rub his thighs together because—

He’s hard. Pietro is hard. He’s hard and that damn lycra isn’t doing a damn thing to hide it and he’s still talking but his voice sounds different now, heavier and almost _whiny_.

“You’re imagining it. Aren’t you? It would be useful. It would be so pretty. Don’t you want to see it? I can show you. You can see how far I can stretch.”

If it hadn’t before, Clint’s brain has _definitely_ short-circuited now, because Pietro’s hand is on his chest, palm resting just where his ribs end, and he’s looking up through his lashes with an expression on his face that’s a strange mixture of self-assuredness and something Clint struggles to identify as anything other than _submissiveness_.

Clint wants to fucking wreck him.

“Okay,” he starts, keeping his breathing slow and deep and even, and Pietro’s shoulders jump. His whole body looks electrified, he’s fidgeting like he’s entirely forgotten how to keep _still_ , and Clint wants to ruin him, wants to wipe him out with pleasure and make him feel so good it _hurts_ , but they’re still stood in the hallway outside of the training rooms and anyone could see them. They’re on five different security feeds right now. There’s probably microphones, probably ten people already easily listening, but Clint asks anyway, voice rough and lowered like it _matters_. “I need—I need you to tell me, kid. Right here and right now. Am I hallucinating, or do you—fuck. Do you want me to fuck you?”

The nod he gets in return is so youthfully emphatic that he is pulled brutally and suddenly in two wildly different directions.

One side of him says, _This is a terrible fucking idea._

The other side of him says, _I am going to fucking_ wreck _him._

“Bedroom,” Clint says, and a split second later he’s dizzy and stood in front of Pietro’s unmade bed. The entire room is a bit of a mess, like the bedroom of any teenager is, and Clint hates that it turns him on more, turns him on just as much as Pietro sat nervously on the edge of his bed does, his knees spread apart like it’s an instinct. Part of Clint wants to coddle him, wants to ease him into this so it’s a nice, sweet, _gentle_ first time. But the rest can see the simmering desperation in Pietro’s gaze, in how his thighs tremble just slightly as he spreads them further, and Clint props a knee on the bed and descends on him. The kiss is messy and desperate right from the start, hands wandering immediately, grasping and pulling and pressing, and Clint is delighted to be informed so soon that Pietro really is eager to submit. He’s pliant and needy, already keening into Clint’s mouth and jerking up clumsily for more even as Clint gives him everything, and he makes a noise of vague, eager encouragement when Clint thumbs the hem of his tight workout shirt.

“Please,” he gasps, accent thick like he’s half forgotten he’s speaking English, and Clint pulls the shirt up without further ado. It becomes apparent, however, when he’s got the shirt pushed up beneath Pietro’s armpits, that the two of them will have to let go of each other and move back in order to take it off fully, and they both apparently agree that that’s unacceptable.

The shirt stays on, the hem pushed up just above Pietro’s nipples, and Clint pushes the boy back on the bed, failing to muffle a groan as the wet, desperate sounds of their makeout session only seem to get louder. Clint feels like a damn teenager, like a kid who’s only thought is of getting off, but he knows he’s gonna be feeling real old in a second.

“Okay, baby,” he says, voice low, a wet flush of air against Pietro’s jaw, and Pietro jerks at the sound, at the feel of it. “You gonna show me how far you can bend?”

Finally, he pulls back, just enough to catch his breath and find his balance on his knees. Vaguely, he pushes at Pietro’s bared stomach until Pietro gets the memo and shuffles clumsily backwards so his legs aren’t dangling off the side of the bed anymore. While he moves, Clint’s fingers fumble to find the waistband of the boy’s leggings, and then he pulls them off, peeling the tight lycra away from pale, slightly sweaty skin and groaning outright at the sight of the wet, sticky mess Pietro’s precum has left on the inside. 

“Lucky that didn’t soak through, huh?” Clint smirks, cradling Pietro’s ankle almost unfittingly tenderly as he pulls the leggings off fully and tosses them uncaringly to the ground. “Everyone who saw you there in the hallway talking to me would’ve known. Known what a slut you are. You’ve really been showing off all this time, harping on and on about how far you can spread your fuckin’ legs, just for this? Just for me?”

The moan Pietro lets out in response to the dirty talk may well be the prettiest thing Clint’s ever heard. The kid’s cheeks are bright red, such an unfamiliar appearance of dishevelled embarrassment, and Clint wants to see more, wants to see all of it, because Pietro the arrogant little shit is one thing, but Pietro the desperate little slut is _entirely_ another.

“C’mon, then. Spread your legs.” Without even giving Pietro a chance to obey, he grips the boy’s knees and pushes them apart, groaning again at how Pietro doesn’t even react to the stretch. Each knee almost touches the mattress on either side of him, and he’s so exposed that it takes all of Clint’s self control to not dive right in and eat him out until he cries.

_Another time_ , he tells himself. Right now, he thinks he and Pietro both want the exact same thing, and he’s not sure how long he’s going to be able to hold out after torturing himself with this image for so goddamn long. 

“I’m gonna fuck you,” he says, like it’s a statement rather than a question, but he keeps a close eye on Pietro’s face for the slightest hint of hesitation. There’s none, just that thoroughly abused lip being bitten down on again, and Pietro’s thighs twitching. “Fuck. You really want it bad.”

It’s like he still can’t quite believe it as he leans over and starts clumsily searching through the bedside tables for lube. 

“First drawer. At the back,” Pietro says immediately, incredibly helpfully, and Clint comes back with a bottle of some fancy, water-based shit. Of course, it was foolish to ever think that Pietro would be the type of teenage boy to just use lotion. Clint almost thinks to ask where he got it from, if he went out to a shop and bought it or ordered it online with the credit card Stark gave him and if he has other things, _toys_ he uses on himself, but that doesn’t really matter.

“You ever had anything inside you before?” he asks instead, perhaps more filthily than he entirely intended, as he slicks his fingers up. Pietro nods, doesn’t speak, and maybe there’s a story there for some day - whether tragic or hot or just clumsy experimentation - but Clint lets it slide. “I’ll be gentle.”

He runs some lube over Pietro’s pretty, pink, _impossibly_ tight hole, and takes a moment to just stare at the sight of him spread out like this. The muscles in the insides of his tights are tight, rippling slightly, but there’s no real strain in them yet, and Clint kind of wants to see how long he can really stay like this.

He also just really wants to see exactly how Pietro moves when Clint pushes the first finger in, straight to the first knuckle, and _fuck_ it’s a sight. The kid’s in a position where arching his back should be all but impossible, but he somehow manages, writhing like he’s asking for _more_ as his pretty little hole sucks Clint in greedily. 

God, why did he ever hold himself back for this long? _How_ did he ever hold himself back for this long?

He does his best to keep ahold of himself. He moves slowly, pushes the finger in in short thrusts until Pietro’s taking it easy as anything after only a few moments, and only then does he give in to those demanding gasps of ‘ _more, more, fuck, old man,_ more', and then suddenly he’s got three fingers stretching Pietro out, fucking in and out of him at a near brutal pace, and Pietro’s hiccuping and moaning like every dream he’s ever had is coming true.

Clint never could’ve imagined him like this. Never could’ve imagined that Pietro would be this eager to just take what he’s given, be held down and talked at and filled up, but, in a way, it almost makes sense. There’s something behind it, something heavy that Clint doesn’t want to think about right now, and he’s sure Pietro doesn’t either, so he just thrusts his fingers in as far as they’ll go again, listens to the filthy wet sound, and then jerks them at a sure angle that punches all of the air from Pietro’s lungs in a moan that’s more of a cry.

To his credit, he’s been holding the position near perfectly all this time, only occasionally fidgeting or flexing when his muscles have cramped with a particular wave of pleasure, but Clint can tell that it’s getting too much now. He doesn’t want the boy to be in pain, doesn’t want him to ache the way he knows this position will cause after too long, so he curls his fingers again, listens to Pietro gasp a desperate sob of a moan, and then he pulls his thoroughly soaked fingers out. Pietro mumbles a protest that surely isn’t English, too thick with consonants Clint doesn’t recognise, but he soothes his clean hand up the side of Pietro’s thigh and pushes gently until the boy relaxes, whining soft in the back of his throat as he slowly lets his heels meet the mattress again - though he still doesn’t let his knees touch.

“Please,” he gasps, like this is a betrayal, like he’ll die if there isn’t something inside of him, stretching him out, immediately, and Clint leans down to press a kiss to his neck, something between filthy and soothing. 

“‘S’okay,” he whispers, pressing another kiss just above the previous wet marks from his lips, then continues following the pattern upwards until he finds Pietro’s sharp, stubbled jaw and then his soft, swollen lips. 

They kiss again, somehow even deeper this time, and Pietro’s practically drooling, and that _shouldn’t_ be hot but _God_ it is. 

“Bet nobody’s ever made you feel like this before, huh?”

Because no pretty girl in Sokovia could hold Pietro down and make him beg to be fucked. Not without a toy or two, at least. And Clint’s pretty sure he can fuck the kid way better anyway.

“Fuck,” he hisses, following the path of saliva he’d left and roughly nosing the boy’s jaw up so he can give into a desire he’d been avoiding and sink his teeth into that thin, pale skin. Pietro lets out a startled sort of cry, his thighs pressing either side of Clint’s hips, but Clint doesn’t let up. He knows damn well that nobody’s ever done this to Pietro before, never marked him up, because Pietro’s reacting to every lick and suck and bite, writhing and hissing and jerking and mumbling foreign _somethings_ until Clint thinks he’s satisfied.

He pulls back, eyes immediately darting to his fresh canvas of bruises that won’t last through the hour with Pietro’s Enhanced healing, but that’s fine. As long as they’re there for now.

“God. I’m gonna fuck you.”

It’s the second - he thinks it’s the second - time he’s said it, but now - like this - it’s less of a vague promise and more of a course of action. He’s painfully hard, aching almost unbearably in a way that only hits him now, and he realises he hasn’t touched himself at all through all of this, too centred on Pietro. 

It’s more than worth it, though. Especially as he pulls back and stands up on his knees, waits for Pietro’s gaze to find him, and only then does he push his trousers and briefs down and appreciate the absolute _hunger_ that swallows Pietro’s expression.

“Fuck,” he says, so thick with his accent that it almost doesn’t sound English. Perhaps it isn’t, because it’s followed by more of what Clint can only guess are curse words, before Pietro finally finds a piece of his mind. “Shit—shit. Please. Clint, please. Inside, need it, need it. Want this for so _long_ , tri—tried so _hard_ to get your attention, shit, Clint, _please_.”

And maybe Clint isn’t a good person. Maybe he’s failed the elaborate test from God and he’s about to fall through a comedic trapdoor right to the lowest circle of Hell that’s reserved just for old dudes who get off to pretty nineteen-year-olds who wear too-tight pants and dance around just to _get his attention_ , but—

Fuck. He’s not a saint. And he imagines that’s the only type of person who would be able to do literally anything but grab the lube again and slick his palm up and then spread it almost frantically over his aching length. Pietro is still practically chanting, begging like an angel without even being asked, and Clint wants to give him exactly what he wants.

He does murmur some kind of warning before he starts, but Pietro still jerks like he’s been electrocuted when the head of Clint’s dick catches against his wet, pink rim. He says something that’s definitely not English and just breathes for a moment, deep and shaky, before he curls his hands around the backs of his thighs and— folds himself in half. Near perfectly. He can’t balance quite right on his own, but Clint knows exactly what he’s going for and easy replaces Pietro’s hands with his own, rough and tan against the impossibly soft, impossibly pale skin of Pietro’s strong thighs. Clint pushes him further, pushes his legs back more, until the kid’s hips are off the bed entirely and his ankles are almost parallel with his ears and his hands are gripping the sheets beside him and he’s immobile.

And then Clint stands up on his knees again, finds his balance and releases one hand so that he can guide his dick, and then— then he’s pushing in.

Pietro is tight like a fucking vice. He’s also warm and wet and soft like _velvet_ as much as Clint has _always_ hated that comparison and he’s making noises, hoarse little moans and punched-out gasps as Clint pushes in more and more, inch by inch, and yeah, yeah, Clint’s brain definitely got fried a while back because he can’t even form a coherent thought right now, not until he’s buried so deep he knows Pietro can feel it in his _throat_ and finally he asks, “Is that alright?”

It was probably wishful thinking to expect a coherent answer, let alone an English one. Luckily, Pietro manages a very dizzy-looking nod, and then he clenches around Clint’s cock tight enough to make Clint choke.

“Oh, _fuck_ , kid.”

He’s panting, trying so hard to keep ahold of himself, half because he wants to drill Pietro into the bed with as much brutality as he can muster and half because he’s not as young as he used to be and this is _more_ than enough to overwhelm him.

He’s never been with anyone like Pietro, and he knows he’s never going to express that sentiment out loud, because the arrogant little asshole would never let him hear the end of it.

That’s one thing about this, though. For once, perhaps for the first time ever that Clint’s seen, there is not a single note of arrogance nor insecurity within Pietro. He’s held down, helpless, stretched out wide and thoroughly fucked out already, and he’s just _existing_. Relinquishing control to Clint, looking up at him through tear-filled, baby blue eyes surrounded by a fan of long, white lashes.

“Angel,” Clint murmurs, breathless. “I’m going to Hell.”

And then he pulls out, far enough to make Pietro gasp a desperate whine, before he’s pushing back in hard enough that the _slap_ of skin colliding cracks through the room, sends a sting through his hips, pulls a noise from Pietro like every bit of breath has left him. And then he does it again.

He finds a rhythm quickly. The angle isn’t ideal for speed, but all of this would be wasted with that - and what a beautiful irony that is. Instead, Clint fucks Pietro harsh and deep, doling out short flurries of shallow, dizzyingly fast thrusts every time Pietro seems to sink a little too deep. He’s speaking, he thinks, grunted and growled words about how Pietro looks so pretty like this, how he really can bend so nicely, how he feels so damn good and Clint is already close, has been close for an embarrassingly long time, only holding on by the skin of his teeth because he wants to make Pietro cum first. Surely it’s some sort of miracle or great failure that he hasn’t already, because Pietro’s been wound up and practically begging for it from the start.

It becomes apparent, however, when Clint catches one thrust just right and suddenly Pietro is arching his back and _wailing_ , that he’s been holding on just as fiercely. The orgasm hits him hard, hits him like he’s never had a good orgasm before in his life, and Clint feels heat curl white-hot in his gut as he watches tears spill messy down Pietro’s cheeks as cum spurts messy across his trembling abdominals and heaving chest.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Clint whispers reverently, and then he picks up the pace and watches Pietro _scream_. “Who knew all I had to do to get you like this was fuck you into a mattress? You ever gone this long without bein’ a brat before, baby boy?”

God. If Pietro was a mess before, flushed and sweaty, he’s something far beyond that now. His whole body is trembling like he’s been electrified and perhaps Clint would be worried if only he weren’t begging for more, desperate little murmurs that dip in and out of English. He’s crying hard, gripping the sheets so tight that the fabric’s stretched in some areas and torn in others, but he’s still so pliant. 

Clint knows he’s close. He can’t last no matter how desperately he wants to. But the fact that Pietro is so eager now comforts him somewhat - because there is no way that they’re not doing this again, whether it involves Pietro showing off his flexibility in lycra or not.

Maybe they can skip the lycra next time. Or skip step two instead and Clint can tear a hole and fuck him straight through it, in that damned training room with all the mirrors.

“Shit. Fuck, baby boy, you gonna take it? You gonna let me cum inside?”

“Please, please, **_please, plea_ ** —please, Clint, _Clint—”_

Pietro screams like he’s cumming all over again and Clint whites out like he’s taken a solid hit to a real special place on the head - because he’s never once in his life _whited out_ from an orgasm. 

God damn. European twinks really are something special.

He has no idea how long it’s been when he comes back to his senses, but he’s lay on his back on the bed and Pietro is next to him, fully naked now and still a mess of tears and sweat and cum. Clint feels a deep sense of accomplishment fill him, and he can’t help but lean over and capture Pietro’s lips in a gentle but dominating kiss - an assurance of ‘ _you’re mine now_ ’. Pietro mewls into it, too fucked out to even kiss back, and then his head lands on Clint’s chest.

“So,” Clint says, however long afterwards it takes for him to remember how to speak. “Trying to get my attention, huh?”

“Yes.”

He nods, grinning dopily at the ceiling. “Good job on that. I’m real grateful.”

Pietro scoffs. “You should be. Do you know how hard it is to figure out dirty double-meanings in your second language?”

The sentence takes a moment to set in, and then Clint laughs, exhausted but fully sincere as he wraps an arm around Pietro’s waist to hold him. “I’ll never tease you for your English-speaking fuck-ups ever again.”

He feels Pietro’s drool-slick lips curl into a smile against his neck. “You are my English-speaking fuck-up.”

Truly the birth of something beautiful.

Clint is so, _so_ going to Hell.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! please leave a comment if you enjoyed, or come talk to me on tumblr @catbrainswriting - i'm always down for talking about pietro <3


End file.
